Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon (8 page)

"It's sort of a prank, but it's been around for years. High school kids do it for fun, especially in rural areas."

"Well, we certainly qualify in that regard."

"You sneak up on a sleeping cow, give it a firm but hard push, and the cow will fall right over."

"And you know this because…?"

"We were all young once." I opened a beer and took a long pull from the bottle.

"I thought you had given up beer for Lent," Meg said.

"I started to, but then I decided to give up meddling in church politics. In order to do that, I'm going to need the beer."

"OK then. Back to the cows."

"Anyway," I continued, "when the cow falls over, it tends to give a startled moo, which in turn wakes up all the other cows. If there happens to be a bull around, you'd better be fast. The problem is that sometimes the cows injure themselves in the fall. These are very expensive animals, especially some of Connie's milk cows. They're worth several thousand dollars apiece."

"The whole thing is just silly."

"I know it. Anyway, Connie Ray's getting a donkey."

"A watch donkey?"

"Exactly. They tend to sound an alarm and wake the cows up before they can be tipped. And they're good protection against coyotes."

"We don't have any coyotes around here, do we?" Meg asked.

"I haven't seen any, but that doesn't mean they aren't out there lurking."

"Not to change the subject, but that's an interesting haircut you have there."

"It was free with the Reuben combo plate at the Slab. Noylene Fabergé graduated from Beauty School yesterday. She was giving haircuts in the back of Pete's storeroom."

"If I were you, I'd rethink the 'free haircut with lunch' scenario. At least it's winter. You can wear a hat until it grows out."

"It's not that bad, is it?"

"No. Not that bad. But I'd give Noylene a couple of months practice before I became a regular."

"I'll take that advice."

•••

Sunday morning at St. Barnabas was as well attended as it was advertised to be with Wenceslas making his debut as verger to great acclaim. I played quite a prelude – The Bach d-minor with the fugue following. Trite, perhaps, but with a royal Hungarian dwarf leading the procession, I couldn't think of anything more appropriate.

The procession began with the verger, dressed elegantly in a black velvet tunic, complete with a velvet tam and an ostrich plume. His kept his wand at a precise forty-five degree angle, the silver tip pointing the way, and stepped out like he had been trained in the Hungarian Red Army. His boots were polished to a dazzling shine and his cape was trimmed in dark fur. He had a manicured, white beard and a large handlebar moustache. I had to admit that he looked every bit of the Hungarian royalty that we had heard he was. All eyes were on him as he executed a kick turn in front of the altar, spun the verge in his hand like a drum major, and pointed each member of the procession to his place – all in rhythmic precision. As the thurifer brought the incense pot up to the altar, Wenceslas seemed to disappear into the cloud of smoke, reappearing in his designated place as if by magic. I could see all this out of the corner of my eye, and I could see the choir as well. They were mesmerized.

The priest was less impressive in his entrance. He still had his attendants scurrying around behind him, trying to keep his cope off the ground. However, where Wenceslas had an air of dignity and purpose, the priest had none.

The Children's Moment had been mercifully scrapped, so the rest of the service went pretty much without incident. It was the following morning that the next bombshell hit.

"Nice of you to come to our staff meeting, Hayden," said Father Barna in what I perceived as a rather sarcastic tone.

"It's my pleasure to be here, Emil," I said, taking a sip of coffee.

"I'm sure we'd all like to welcome the newest member of my staff," Father Barna continued. "This is my excellent valet and our new verger, Wenceslas Kaszas."

Wenceslas nodded and surveyed the table before addressing us in his thick Hungarian accent.

"For those of you that are wondering," he said carefully, "I am a dwarf. I am not a little person. I am from Budapest where I was the verger for Archbishop Erdo."

"Roman Catholic?" I asked.

"Of course."

Wenceslas had a thick Hungarian accent. I felt like I was talking to Bela Lugosi.

"You're an excellent verger," I said. "Way too accomplished for a small church like St. Barnabas." It was not empty praise. He was way out of our league.

He nodded at me. "Yes, but I do not think I will be here for a long time."

"Isn't 'Wenceslas' a Czech name?" I asked.

"Yes," he nodded again, his mustache bobbing slightly. "But I was named for Wenceslas Három, the old King of Hungary."

"Enough chit-chat," said Father Barna. "It's very important to get to my agenda. First on the list – the Children's Moment. I don't think it worked terribly well. I think we should suspend it until after Easter."

There were nods all around the table. I tried not to grin.

"Next, we have a report from Brenda."

Princess Foo-Foo started flipping through her papers until she found the one she needed.

"I've decided," she started. "That is, Father Barna and I have decided…" She smiled across the table at him. "…that Lent would be a good time to have our first Clown Eucharist."

"Our what?" said Georgia Wester, obviously appalled. Georgia was a LEM, that is, a Lay Eucharistic Minister, and she took her job seriously.

"Lent is such a gloomy season. It would be a good time to lighten things up a little. I think this would be a fabulous opportunity for everyone in the congregation to find their happy place."

"I agree," said Father Barna, not wanting to appear too far away from the action. "It's going to be our theme for the next few weeks. We'll discuss it in the Sunday School classes and offer workshops during Institute on Wednesday evenings. Brenda has found us a workbook book called
Finding Your Inner Clown
. We've ordered fifty books and I'd like two volunteers to facilitate the classes. Brenda? You'll be there of course."

The Princess nodded.

"Hayden, can you be there as well?"

"I'd like to, but I have that class on comparative religions to 'facilitate,'" I said, thinking quickly.

"I didn't know about that. Was it on the schedule?"

"I'm pretty sure it was," I said, trying to catch Marilyn's eye. She was dutifully taking notes as any good secretary should.

"Here it is," said Marilyn, looking up and flipping a couple pages for show, never missing a beat. "I'm sorry. I hadn't put it on the calendar yet."

I mentally put Marilyn down for a nice birthday gift.

"Then I suppose Brenda will have to do it herself," said Father Barna. "We'll culminate the class with the Clown Eucharist on Sunday morning. That's the Sunday after next."

"I hesitate to ask," I said. "But what the heck is a Clown Eucharist?"

"We'll have a couple of professional clowns come in," Princess Foo-Foo said. "Father Barna will dress up as a clown and we'll ask for some parishioners to get involved as well. We'll also need some mimes and dancers. Everyone involved will dress as a clown to uphold the feeling of clown-ness."

"Wenceslas?" I asked. I couldn't see him donning a clown suit.

"Alas, I will not be here that week."

"Alas," I said.

•••

"I owe you one," I said to Marilyn as I walked by her desk on the way out.

"You sure do. But you're not out of trouble yet. You still have to get a class together on comparative religions. Father Barna wants me to put it in the newsletter."

"It’s OK," I said. "I have a couple of ideas. I'll call a few of my other-denominational friends and have them come and chat with whoever shows up. Who knows? It might even be fun."

"No good deed goes unpunished, you know," she said.

•••

I was trying to get into the office fairly early the next morning. The sun was up, but hadn't yet made its way over the mountain when I got into my 1962 pick-up, put on Britten's
War Requiem
and pulled onto the main road. The
War Requiem
is a dark, complex piece and suited my mood as well as the weather. Thirty days of below freezing temperatures took its toll on even the most ardent proponents of an extended winter, myself included.

Nancy had beaten me to the office and was checking the answering machine as I came in.

"Anything good?"

"Nope," she said. "A barking dog at three a.m. I actually got the call last night, but it was too cold to mess with."

"I agree. Are you going to the barn on Friday?"

"I have my long-johns ready."

"I won't be here. I'm off to Atlanta on Friday morning for a couple of days," I said. "There's a conference I'm supposed to attend. I'll be back on Saturday night."

"Hmmm," Nancy said. "You get to go to Atlanta. I get to sit in a barn in the freezing cold all night with 'Dave the Wonder Cop' waiting for cow-tippers. Yet, strangely, you make more money than me."

"Yes, but you have a bigger gun. The ways of law enforcement are weird and wonderful. Let's get over to The Slab and get some coffee. It's colder than a witch's nose in here."

"A witch's nose? Don't you mean a witch's ti…"

"Ah, ah," I said, interrupting her. "That could be construed as harassment."

"And me with a bigger gun."

•••

Meg met me for an early lunch at a new establishment that had opened downtown. The Ginger Cat was what I would describe as an upscale chowder bar catering to a wealthy and touristy clientele. In the rear of the store there was a small eatery featuring various soups and homemade breads, coupled with a shop in the front featuring local and regional arts and crafts. As I walked in, I noticed one of Ardine McCollough's quilts sporting a hefty price tag of four hundred fifty dollars.

"Morning, Hayden," said Annie. Annie Cooke lived in Boone but had opened The Ginger Cat in St. Germaine to take advantage of the slightly longer tourist season.

"Good morning, Annie. How's business?"

"Awful. I had to let one girl go last week. I told her to try back in the spring, but she'll probably find other work by then. You know my other girl, Cynthia Johnsson. She just wanted part-time work anyway, so I gave her a few weeks off. I guess it's this way for everyone this time of year."

"I'm afraid so," I said. "No crime though. That's a plus."

"For you maybe. I'll bet an interesting crime or two would help perk up business."

"Is Megan here yet?"

"Just came in." She nodded toward the tables in the back. "Mind the crowds," she added with more than a hint of sarcasm.

I made my way to the back and joined Meg at a table for two.

"We're probably going to be the only customers," she said, "so we have our choice of soup – French Onion or French Onion with bacon sprinkles."

"No kidding? Sprinkles? I'll have that."

"It's on the stove even as we chat. Care for a muffin?"

"Yes, please," I said, lifting one from the basket, taking care to keep my pinkie aloft in my most genteel manner.

"I hear you're doing a class on comparative religion for Wednesday night Institute. I can't decide whether to take your class or 'Finding Your Inner Clown' from Princess Foo-Foo."

"Wow. Word travels fast."

"So, the question I have for you is," she continued, ignoring my interruption, "why should I come to your class instead of searching diligently for my happy place?"

"Well, we're the only ones here. How 'bout if I show you where your happy place is right now?" I said, raising a rakish eyebrow.